The Devil Takes
by Melancholy's Child
Summary: Raoul is mourning the death of his beloved, but another is suffering right alongside him. Raoul/Erik. A bit dark. Rated M for smut. Post LND canon.


**I saw Love Never Dies, and I couldn't get it out of my head. Wrote this in a day. I'm SO not sorry.**

 **Rated M.**

* * *

 **The Devil Takes**

The boy is asleep. His head rests on Raoul's thigh, his flushed face still carrying the dewy remnants of his weeping. Raoul raises a hand to stroke those blonde locks. His hand trembles, whether from the clinging aftereffects of his alcohol detox or from the knowledge that the lighter hair came not from Raoul but from _him_. The boy is so young, younger than Raoul had realized. Too young to lose his mother in the echo of a gunshot.

Once he is certain Gustave is asleep, he picks up the boy, so slight in his arms, and carries him to bed. They still reside on Coney Island, still in that apartment laid furnished for them as surely as an animal snare. Raoul sleeps on the couch for he cannot bear to enter the room where she slept once.

The house grows quiet.

For a moment, Raoul only stands and breathes.

 _I need a drink_ had been the first thought he'd had upon returning here to change out of his bloody clothes. That had shocked him out of his cloud of mourning. If he had not been drunk and _jealous_ , he might have noticed when Gustave went missing. He might have been there to help coax the gun away from Meg Giry or hold Christine before she died.

He might have done more than think, _I need a drink_.

And so he had stopped. Immediately. Gustave had clung to him without ceasing that first day, and Raoul had not been able to bring himself to down a glass in front of the boy. And the boy's warmth had helped with his tremors and soothed his racing heartbeat. Focusing on someone else had distracted him from the endless nausea.

He had come out the other side with clearer eyes and realized just how badly he had fucked everything up.

He stands there in the middle of the room and breathes and tries to focus on getting through another night alone.

And then he hears _him_ start to wail.

It is a thin sound. He doesn't know how he hears it, but he does, fed to him through pipes and hidden gapes between the walls, rising from the basement like wisps of a dying ghost. Every night it is the same thing, this wailing of a soul destroyed by grief. Raoul cannot escape it no matter how hard he presses his palms to his ears.

This night, he can take no more.

He storms out the door and into the hall, not bothering to grab his coat. In fact, he rolls up his sleeves as he strides. He doesn't know where he is going, only that he needs to head downward because where does a demon live but in the basement? That god-awful sound grows louder.

The trio of circus freaks are hovering by the door, their faces pale in the lamplight. He supposes they love the monster in their own way, maybe how a dog loves its owner. They don't even try to stop him as he shoulders past.

He pounds on the door in rhythm with the throbbing in his head. "Stop that at once!"

The noise does so immediately. It cuts off like it was chopped by a knife, suddenly and without the promise that the figure on the other side of the door is still breathing. He hasn't seen Mr. Y since they placed Christine into the ground two days ago. Even then, he barely saw him from beneath the blocking curve of a black umbrella.

Despite his anger, he feels worry creep in. He hates this man, hates him almost as much as he hates himself, but he _is_ Gustave's blood-related father…

He tries the doorknob, but it is locked.

"Have you a key?" he says to the trio who blink at him through red-rimmed eyes.

The tall one nods. "Please, Vicomte," he says as he hands over a ring of keys. "He hasn't had anything to drink or eat in days. He refuses to let us enter to attend to him."

"I will handle it. Go and prepare a meal for him. One of you sit with Gustave in case he wakes while I am gone." They bow and scurry off. "Mr. Y!" he calls to the person within. "I am coming in whether you want me to or not."

He turns the lock and opens the door. A wave hits him, the scent of grief: stale and suffocating, thick in its selfish indulgence. There is an empty hearth to the left and a bed to the right, the smoothed coverlet showcasing the fact that no one has slept in it. In the corner of the room, he sees another door that leads to an adjoining bathroom. The bedroom is dark, so he takes the scone from the hallway and places it in a holder just inside the doorway. Then he shuts the door behind him and locks it back.

He hears a shuddering breath, the suction of air between clenched teeth from somewhere beyond the bed. He rounds the four-poster and sees the figure hunched between bed and table. The mask and wig are off, but he forces himself to bear it; if the boy can handle such a hideous sight, then surely he can without retching.

He has seen him in such a state before, this curling in of long limbs, the hunching of broad shoulders. The other man – for yes, Raoul admits he is just a man – has the ability to tower or crouch, to magnify his presence so it suffocates everyone in the room or draw himself in as though that can keep eyes from landing upon him.

The sight infuriates Raoul.

"How dare you," he hisses. "Christine lies dead no more than a week. Why are _you_ the one who gets to fall apart?"

Broad hands with long, tapered fingers attempt to cover the balding head, as though that might block out Raoul's words. The blonde strands sticking out from between bony knuckles only remind Raoul of the boy asleep floors above them.

He strides forward and hooks a hand around the other man's elbow. "Get up! God, you reek."

This ghost of a man has nearly a head of height above him, but his spine bows as Raoul wrenches him to his feet. He won't let him sink back down, drags him to the bathroom with irritating awkwardness. The man is surprisingly heavy for all his sinewy build, the arm under Raoul's hand flexing hard muscle.

The bathroom is odd. A glass-lined shower stands at the far end instead of the usual bathtub. Raoul heaves the man fully-dressed to the drain in middle of it, where he collapses to his hands and knees as soon as Raoul lets go of him. Raoul figures out the dials easily enough and steps back as a spray of cold water rushes out of the tap above.

The man flinches but doesn't move, lets the water hit him at the back of the neck even as it quickly turns to hot. Soon, his clothes are soaked, his black suit no longer so imposing as it becomes wet rags hanging from his frame. _This_ is the thing Christine chose over him? This heap of twisted flesh had been more appealing than a Vicomte who had loved her since they were children?

Raoul hates the sight of him. Hates that he gets to slump there and relish in his heartache while Raoul is forced to go on living for the boy upstairs. If Gustave hadn't run over and thrown his arms around him after unmasking this filth, it would have been Raoul next lying dead on that pier.

The rising of a quiet voice catches him off guard. It is dulcet without intention, a natural state of seduction that he has never been able to quite clear from his own ears:

"What are you doing, Vicomte?"

It bubbles out of him, the answering snarl. And he is in the shower, and his hands are around a neck, and he is squeezing, his nails digging into flesh.

The other man doesn't move, lets him kneel between his legs and slam him into the tile at his back. The water sluices across the deformed flesh of his face, but his expression is calm, his dark blue eyes leveled upon Raoul. Even as his smooth cheek begins to purple from lack of air, he makes no move to push off the Vicomte.

Raoul forces the words: "Why you? I would have given her everything I had, and instead she always chose you. You are disgusting, aren't you? And yet she did not care." He eases his hands open, watches as the man's lips part to suck in a breath. "Some part of me always knew she had gone to you, knew Gustave was too different to be anything but yours. I didn't want to admit that I simply could not keep her."

"I think," the man says, voice raspy from the abuse. "I think she wanted us both."

Raoul stares down at him. His fingernails are still biting into wet skin and he eases them open. Then he shakes his head in disbelief until his vision blurs and he is laughing great, hysterical laughs that echo in the small chamber. This man had known Raoul stood no chance against him, had known he would win Christine back in a blink, had shown up at the bar only to humiliate Raoul with this knowledge. He laughs and laughs until his laughter turns to great sobs that wrack his body. What an idiot he had been. He could have saved her if only he had let her go.

"What did she see in you beyond a pretty face?" the man says. He seems more awake now after Raoul's outburst, his eyes clear.

He sits up, takes Raoul's chin in a tight grip, forces him to meet his gaze. Raoul has seen him flinch at a mere look, cower away from touch and scream at others to get away, so why is it that he can always stare Raoul down? He does not seem to mind Raoul's eyes upon him. Does not even try to turn his face to the side. That moment in the bar, he had stalked toward him, forcing him to pedal backwards without even the line of his imposing body touching him.

Raoul came here to save Gustave's father, but now he thinks he is the one in need of saving.

"Let go of me," he snarls. He tries to break away, but the hold on his chin is brutal, his jaw aching. "I don't want anything to do with you."

"Liar."

That is when the fear takes hold – not of this man and what he could do to him physically. He has placed a noose around his neck before, after all, and Raoul emerged alive on the other side.

No, Raoul fears the familiar face he sees reflected in those cold eyes. This man would not hesitate to peel back his skin and reveal the truth about himself.

Drunk. Fake.

Coward.

And when he is stripped bare, when the stench of his own fear meets this man's nose, what will he have then? Certainly not any remnants of _pride._

He is the one kneeling between the legs of the other, but suddenly, he doesn't feel imposing – he feels trapped. His palms slip against the wet tile.

The fingers grasping his chin ease and settle to his neck. For a moment, he almost begs for it, wants the release, wants to follow Christine. Anything might be better than this humiliation. But the hand continues downward, bony fingers spread wide.

And palms him at the juncture of his thighs.

He is hard, God, _he is hard_. He didn't realize the pinpoint of the ache, thought he was confused. But he _is_ confused, his mind more muddled now than ever it was on whisky. Desire floods him and he shakes his head, trying to will it away. How can he want the man sitting before to him when all he has ever tried to do was beat him down?

The hand shifts, palm dragging on the head of his cock through his soaked trousers. "You had everything I wanted," the man says, and Raoul shudders as the words slide over him. "And now look at us – we both cannot sink lower than we are."

Raoul shakes his head again, trying to focus on the words with that heavy hand between his legs. "Now who is the liar? I think I shall be able to sink much lower indeed."

Those eyes, those stormy blue eyes, are perhaps the most beautiful thing of the man. They widen, go white around the irises, and Raoul takes the moment of hesitancy to lean forward and kiss him. The man's breath scurries away. Raoul presses harder, begins to coax a response from those pillowy, bloated lips, can't help but moan when pressure is finally returned. His mind flits to an image of _her_ lips upon this creature, and for a second, he understands why she went in for another taste.

He wants this; he doesn't want this; he wants to stop thinking for the first time since he quit drinking and simply fall down the rabbit hole.

His fingers fumble with the front of the other's pants, strip back the sodden clothing to take him in hand. He has never touched another man before, and it is at once familiar and foreign. Bony hands clutch his shoulders, digging with a force that should frighten him. Too much power in a thin frame, too much hidden strength to be so careful with the way he slides his lips across Raoul's or tenderly dips his tongue to prod within his mouth.

The man, the ghost, the Phantom skirts his lips down Raoul's throat, wraps long fingers around his jaw to tilt his neck to the side. He murmurs against his skin, presses promising teeth to his flittering pulse.

"Undo your pants and turn around."

The order should make Raoul balk in anger. He should push him off and leave at once. But he doesn't. He pops the button on his pants in his haste to shove them down until they hang in wet rings around his knees. Hands tug at him, reminding him to turn. He gulps in breath after breath, goes to his hands and knees, and presents himself.

The man leans over him, and he can feel the cock laying hot and pulsing upon his lower back. Then a shift, and the length begins to push into him, those musician's fingers splaying his ass wide.

This will hurt – this will –

The man stops, then eases the tip of himself free of Raoul, who lets out a sob – of relief or of protest? He presses his forehead against his own arm, thoughts spinning, until he hears the sound of a glass jar. Cool liquid hits his lower back, stinging in contrast to the hot steam rising around them, and he smells a mixture of herbs and lavender. Then those lithe fingers are back, smoothing the oil down the crack of his ass.

"Please. Oh, please!"

Was that him? Oh God, that whining plea came from him.

 _"With all your… charms."_

He hears the mocking in his head, considers how quickly he could pull up his pants and run. But then a hand skirts around his waist and takes hold of him, the broad palm slick with oil, and begins to wring a pumping pleasure that sends shivers up his spine.

He feels a prodding again, a thickness that begins to split him in two. It still hurts, but it is a burning that threatens to consume him body and soul and not something he would want to escape. He soaks it in, spreads his knees to open himself further, pushes back when the slide is too slow. He hears a hiss from behind him, braces on his palms, and impales himself in one quick motion.

The hand on his length spasms, but the man recovers quickly. Soon that hand drags up and down his cock, twisting with a practiced motion upon the head, until he is shuddering in the early throws of release. It is a slow enough pace to keep him from going over the edge, timed with the thrusts of the man behind him. That long length pulls almost entirely free, then drives forward until he can feel the scratch of the man's pants against the back of his thighs. Over and over, he is overcome, and he is being driven slowly mad.

Finally, when his knees ache on the hard tile, when he throbs with repressed need, the pace increases. The hand upon him is brutal in its insistence, the thrusts become almost cruel, diving deep again and again. His cries bounce off the walls of the shower. Fingers cup his chin, and a thumb tucks between his lips; he bites at it, earning a harder thrust that nearly knocks him to the floor.

His thoughts fly free, and he thinks he can stand no more, and then he spurts hot jets onto the tile under him. The man behind him growls. Hands release to grip painfully upon his hips, and then a heavy weight slumps onto him, and he knows it is over.

They pause there, both breathing harshly, for a long span of time. The man behind him pulls free his softening member, and he hears the wet sounds of clothing being righted. He cannot muster the will to pull up his own pants, not until he hears the strained words emitted at his back:

"Why are you still here, Vicomte?"

There is no dignified way to scramble to his feet, to tug at sodden linen pants until he can cover himself. He can't mask the hurt he feels as he turns his eyes to the man striding coolly from the shower.

He also cannot bring himself to reply.

Two of the circus freaks are still in the hall, one of them now carrying a tray. They spare him a glance, but they are trained to not ask questions. He stumbles past them, trying to ignore the slickness between his thighs, the rush of warmth that he knows isn't from the shower.

Another freak is sitting on his couch when he enters, the little one. She offers him a smile and a bow, and she is gone, and finally, he is alone. He makes his way to his bedroom and closes the door, strips off his soaked clothing.

And God help him, he cannot bring himself to bathe again. The scent of herbs and lavender lingers for days.

* * *

He hears nothing from Mr. Y, not even when a week later, he boards a ship to return to Paris. He clings to the feeling of the boy's arms wrapped around his neck, but he knows the little one had already left the dock when he departed. How can he blame Gustave for choosing to love his father – the man is a void that draws everyone to him like a drug addiction.

On his way back to Paris, he finds an extra bag with his luggage. He opens it – it is full of cash, a parting gift from Mr. Y, a beggar's payment.

Atop the money is a letter written in a thin scrawl:

 _Pay off your debts, Vicomte. Stay sober. And come back._

 _Your obedient servant,_

 _Erik_

Within the envelop, there is a ticket to New York, dated six months from now.

And he already knows he will use it, as surely as he feels his own beating heart.


End file.
